He Killed Us Both Novel – Five months pregnant, I watched from the garage as my husband Linus’s adopted sister, Lydia, severed the brake line of our car with a pair of pliers. This time, I didn’t press the emergency button. In my previous life, after I called for help, Linus saved me, but Lydia lost her left leg in another “car accident.” He acted as if nothing had changed, his touch still tender, but on the fourth night after our son was born, he ordered us thrown into the cold Chicago River. “Because of you, Lydia is a cripple,” he’d snarled. He pushed me under the water with the same hands that had caressed me countless times, whispering in my ear, “I want you to sink with the one thing you cherish most.” When I opened my eyes again, I found myself back in the Cadillac, careening uncontrollably off the highway.
1 The smell of gasoline stung my lungs—thick, suffocating, and deadly. I awoke, five months pregnant, in a cacophony of twisted metal and shattered glass. Through the broken windshield, I saw her: Lydia, my husband’s adopted sister, the family’s Principessa, flicking open a Zippo lighter, ready to ignite the leaking fuel. I didn’t press the emergency button on my wrist, the one connected to the family’s security system. In my previous life, I used that private line to call for his help. Linus—my husband, the Don of the Valeriano family, the man I’d loved since medical school—rushed to my side. He pulled me from the mangled car just as an explosion engulfed Lydia, supposedly costing her a leg. For the remaining months of my pregnancy, his devotion was flawless. Linus arranged for the country’s top obstetricians and accompanied me to every check-up, his care so meticulous it felt like a beautiful, damning lie. But on the fourth night after our son was born, he took us to the family’s private dock on the Chicago River. He stood under the moonlight, impeccable in a bespoke suit, and delivered our sentence.
He ordered us thrown into the depths—first my son in his stroller, then me. “You made Lydia a cripple,” he said as the cold river consumed me. “So you can sink with the one thing you cherish most.” When I opened my eyes again, I was back in the Cadillac, hurtling off the highway. This time, my trembling fingers dialed 911. Let him choose her again, but this time, in front of the entire Chicago underworld. A few minutes later, the mangled car door was crushing my leg. A shard of metal pierced my shoulder. The sharp agony of breaking bone ripped a scream from my throat, but the sound was lost in the overwhelming, acrid stench of gasoline. Another piece of burning metal slammed into my abdomen. Blood gushed out, soaking the leather seats I had once so carefully chosen for him. My baby—my five-month-old baby, once so safe inside me—stirred faintly, then went utterly still. I heard his arrival before I saw him. The distinct, confident rhythm of his Italian leather shoes on the asphalt, his tall figure striding through the dense smoke. Linus had arrived. I heard Lydia’s voice first, perfectly fragile: “Linus—I can’t breathe—” He bent down and swept her into his arms, her face pressed against his chest. “I’ve got you. I’ll never let go.” He stepped over the burning gasoline, over the police tape, over his wife and his unborn heir, leaving us to die in the flames.
I turned my head, the thick smoke searing my eyes, choking me into a violent cough. A handmade leather shoe prodded my ribs with a casual, dismissive motion, like one might check on roadkill. It was his Capo, Nico. “Pathetic,” he sneered. “So jealous you crash your own car. Too bad the Don isn’t here to see this little performance.” I crawled forward, my wedding ring scraping harshly against the shattered glass. My white coat was charred, my exposed skin blistering. The top-tier medical resources that had once served me were now being used on Lydia’s flawless skin three blocks away. “Please… the baby…” I pleaded, my voice a hoarse whisper. Nico glanced down, his lips twisting into a cruel smirk. “Cut the act, Doctor. Everyone knows you hate Lydia. But crashing your own car to frame her? That’s a new kind of desperate. A real shame the Don missed it.” He kicked my abdomen contemptuously with the tip of his shoe. “The Don chose her. You’re just humiliating yourself. Keep this up, and he’ll have the lawyers draw up the annulment papers before sunrise.” I couldn’t speak. My uterus was spasming, sharp and violent. I tasted the coppery tang of blood in my mouth.
The family’s Soldati moved around me, extinguishing the flames on the expensive car, not a single one sparing me a glance. A voice cut through the chaos: “Blood! God, she’s bleeding!” “Probably red wine,” Nico shouted back without turning. “Miss Lydia said she’s a drama queen. She’s five months along; it’s not like the baby just disappeared. Let her have her moment.” Darkness gathered at the edges of my vision. I saw Linus’s Italian leather shoes stop within my line of sight. He crouched down. His gloved hand—soft leather, stained with the scent of Lydia’s Chanel N°5—gripped my chin, forcing my face toward his. “Wake up, Cassandra,” he snarled. “Stop the act. I’m here.” He shook me, roughly. “You think I can’t see through your tricks? Sabotaging your own car to frame her? Pathetic.” His hand left my face and fell to my stomach, pressing down hard. I arched my back in agony, a silent scream tearing through me. “A convincing performance,” he murmured, “but I know you, Cassandra. You’d burn down the city for a scrap of attention.” “Linus—” I grabbed the cuff of his Armani suit, my hand weak, my fingernails caked with blood. “The baby… he isn’t moving…” He glanced at my abdomen, at the slight, five-month curve.
Then he looked back toward the side of the road. From the roadside, Lydia’s voice called his name—weak, perfectly rehearsed, and utterly flawless. He clenched his jaw and pried my fingers from his sleeve, one by one.